Windows To The Soul
by Hazel Eyed Girl 1998
Summary: Patrick Jane/OC. 14 year old Lily Tanner's mother is in hospital, and her aunt, Teresa Lisbon, is the only one that can take care of her. When Alice comes to work with her, she meets Patrick Jane, and the two take a liking to each other. When Jane is investigating a murder, Lily tries to help, with interesting results. Will the mentalist have an apprentice? Details inside.
1. Part One: Seeing Red

A/N: This was not intended to be a romance fic, but if any readers fancy a little underage relationship with our own Patrick Jane, let me know. Basically a mentor/father figure sort of thing will be found in Jane by our young Lily. Rated M for mentions of rape, violence later on, and coarse language

I entered the building cautiously, trailing behind my aunt with a wary eye. "Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "Everyone's really nice here." A blond-haired, tanned man wearing a three-piece suit turned to face us. "Lisbon! You made it." He took me in with a piercing gaze. "Is she someone I need to talk to?"

"She's my niece. Lily, this is Patrick Jane." He looked momentarily surprised, but something about his expression told me it was mostly for Teresa's benefit. _Not a suspect, Jane,_ was the unspoken message.

"Hi," I said.

"Ah. That explains it. I can see a bit of a resemblance now you mention it, yes. Hello, Lily."

"I'm sure you noticed before," my aunt said dryly.

"Whatever do you mean, dear Lisbon?" I chuckled quietly at Jane's antics.

"Look – long story short, her mom's in the hospital and she needed me to look after her, so she can just sit here and read or something. She won't bother you, I'm sure. Has anyone got a spare chair?" Like magic, the blond pulled one out from behind a desk. "Thanks," I murmured. I took a seat in the corner and pulled out a book, tucking my brown hair behind my ears.

For a while the CBI office was quiet, so I took the opportunity to sneak a peek at its occupants – one young, redheaded woman, one serious, Chinese man, a brown haired young guy and Jane. Plus Teresa, of course.

Jane caught me looking around and smirked. He wheeled his chair closer and started putting names to faces. Pointing to the redhead: "Grace van Pelt – she's new and eager to prove herself, but she's good at what she does." As he motioned to the Oriental one: "Kimball Cho. He's very serious, never jokes or anything." Gesturing to the brown haired one: "Wayne Rigsby. I don't think he likes me very much."

"What do you all do?" I asked curiously.

"I'm a consultant for the team – this is the Serious Crimes division. Lots of murders."

"Geez," I breathed.

"Not the most cheerful job, I'll grant you – but it's satisfying putting bad guys behind bars."

"I admire you," I shrugged. "Dead bodies creep me out. What case are you working on?" Jane looked around shiftily.

"I'm not sure I should give you the details."

I leaned forward ever so slightly and put on a sunny smile. "I'm the boss's niece – come on." Jane looked at me sharply.

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"That's a bit manipulative for fourteen. I admire your covert little attempts to win me over, but I'm good at reading people's body language and so naturally I am not susceptible to your _charms_." I blushed.

"Sorry." He looked at me curiously.

"That's okay. Tell me – have you heard of me before?"

"Your name is familiar, but I'm not sure where I've heard it."

"I'm a mentalist." That was when it clicked.

"You read body language and manipulate people. Cold readings, hypnotism, fake psychic work." I curled my finger in air quotes. "And reading minds."

Patrick quirked his head in a false expression of wonder. "Do I detect a hint of scepticism?" I scoffed at him openly.

"You don't seriously expect me to believe that you can really read minds."

"I can. I'll prove it."

"Ok then," I chuckled. "What am I thinking about right at this moment?" Patrick looked at me searchingly.

"You're thinking: I'm so glad he can't actually read minds."

"Wrong," I crowed. He looked irked.

"Liar."

"No! I was thinking about chocolate."

"I should've known," he said, snapping his fingers regretfully. "But I do have something you might want…" He pulled out my phone and wiggled it in front of my face. "Very sly," I chuckled. "How did you do that?" He smirked.

"You had your bag just sitting there. It was pretty easy to distract you and take your phone." Even as I looked I knew he was right - my chocolate leather handbag lay abandoned on the ground by the chair I sat in.

"_Touché_," I chuckled. "Now will you tell me what your case is about?" Jane looked unfazed by the change of subject. He looked around to see that Lisbon had re-entered the room, so he spoke to her. "Can I tell the curious niece of yours about our case?" Teresa looked surprised.

"I suppose – as long as she doesn't give away any crucial details."

"I won't," I promised. My aunt nodded, and moved back into her office after retrieving a stack of paperwork from the printer.

Jane turned to face me. "It's a fifty year old woman, goes by the name of Annabelle Henderson. She was found murdered in her apartment. No prints, and not a single lead."

"Did she have any enemies?" I asked.

"Not that the others have found out," Jane said slowly, "but I need to do some sniffing around first. It looks like she was just some lonely old woman, though."

"Maybe someone tried to rob her and she put up a fight," I suggested. My theory was quickly shot down, though Jane had a twinkle in his eye as he shook his head. "No signs of a struggle." His voice grew softer. "We found traces of cyanide in her bloodstream and there was a smashed teacup on the ground where she lay dead – we analysed the dregs and found more poison in her drink."

"So cold blooded murder then," I said gloomily. "No crime of passion, just a calculating psychopath that planned this entire thing out." Rigsby looked round sharply. "Stop telling her about the case, Jane," he snapped. "Sorry," he added, to me.

"Lisbon gave me clearance," Jane smiled. "Lily is her niece. It's fine. Anyway, it's just stuff anyone could figure out if they looked." Rigsby looked grumpy, but turned away. "He doesn't like the way you are with Lisbon," I said quietly. Jane seemed curious, yet again. "How did you pick that?"

"Well," I said softly, "he was mad when you started telling me the details of the murder, but even grumpier when he found out you were allowed to. He thinks you've got her eating out of the palm of your hand. It's just a hunch, mind."

"A very astute one," he said casually. "You'd make a good mentalist."

"Teach me then," I dared him.

"Maybe I will," he said slowly, his eyes exploring my soul. My discomfort must have shown on my face, because his lips twitched in a small smile. I dropped my gaze, and as a result didn't see the small frown that creased his brow.


	2. Good Luck

Jane began with the basics. "Distracting people is a big part of what I do. Suggestion is also important. When you want something to go your way, make sure that you _appear _to be supportive of whatever your target is suggesting. Phrases like 'I agree', tinged with your own opinion, are very effective." I briefly interrupted him. "Do you think you should be revealing all your secrets here?"

"Probably not," he admitted, shooting a quick look at Rigsby, van Pelt and Cho. They were all looking on with interest. Grace chuckled behind her hand. "I'm going out for some air," Jane announced. He looked meaningfully at me, then walked out. I waited for a few minutes, then said vaguely, "I'll be back in a bit."

Jane was waiting out the front of the CBI building, a light breeze ruffling his hair. "Well that was an obvious exit on both our parts, but it can't be helped and doesn't matter."

"So, continue," I said lightly.

"So – where was I – manipulating people. Not that difficult – all that's needed is charm. Even if you're the most irritating person on the planet, you can still manipulate someone if they like you."

"Remind you of someone?" I chuckled. "You and Lisbon seem locked in a constant game of how far you can push her before she snaps."

"And I'm winning. Now, use me as a subject. I'm a teacher you're trying to push an idea to."

"Okay," I said agreeably. "Male teacher or female?" His eyes flashed with amusement.

"Picture _me_," he said simply. I cleared my throat and spoke.

"Look, Mr Jane – I'm sure you'll agree when I say that we need a longer lunch time. I know the education of students is of great importance to you – this is something that will benefit everybody. If you introduce this change, you won't just be a teacher anymore – you'll be the one that changed the face of education, that ensured students had a better and brighter future."

I finished off with a glowing, sunny smile. "Unless the person you're trying to win over is completely negative, that was very good," Patrick nodded. "It works especially well if you haven't had a long history with the person – if they know what to expect it's a bit more difficult. Of course, on me, it doesn't work at all. I know all the tricks in the book."

"Egotistical, much?"

"What can I say? I'm just amazingly talented." He looked completely unabashed – in fact, more at ease than ever. "Hypnotism is also another tool in my arsenal, and that is very real."

"Well, don't hypnotise me…." I realised my voice held a panicked edge and tried to smooth it.

"But how will you learn?" he chuckled darkly. He pulled a shiny gold coin from his pocket and started moving it in his thumb and fingers, letting the metal catch the light. "Pretty, isn't it?" He stood silent for a while, letting me become entranced as the coin glinted gold. It was strange – it didn't take long before I was completely fascinated. "Just relax," said Jane, and his voice was like honey. "Look at the coin. See how it catches the light? Glints and glitters." I felt my will melting away, and before long my mind was trapped in a light trance, my brain foggy and my limbs leaden. He continued talking, his voice like a soft, silken blanket wrapping me in warmth. "You will remember every moment of your trance, and in detail how I hypnotised you and the techniques I used." The tiny frown was back, and now he questioned me. "Have you ever suffered trauma in your life?" I nodded dumbly, although deep inside, my subconscious fought the control. "What was it?"

"I was raped a few months ago." My voice was flat and neutral, and I spoke about it as if the event had been a simple trip to the grocery store. He sucked in a sharp breath. "Does Teresa know?"

"Yes."

"Why hasn't she told me?"

"Because I asked her not to. I don't want people to know. I feel ashamed."

"Why?"

"I… don't know." Even hypnotised I was hesitant to give away any details. **"**I should have done something," I murmured. "Resisted. Fought. I just lay there." My face was blank, my voice a flat monotone, but inside my heart ached. "Why didn't you?" Jane asked. His voice was surprisingly gentle, and it registered faintly in my clouded mind. "He had a knife. He said he'd stab me if I screamed. So I didn't." He nodded slowly.

"Alright, Lily," Jane said, and his voice was deadly serious. "Over the next week you will feel the pain slowly start to fade, and you will feel less afraid. Every night you will say to yourself, 'I will learn to trust men again.' Say it now."

"I will…" I hesitated. He put a hand on my arm, and I flinched. He gripped tight. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I couldn't stammer out the simple sentence. He released my arm, and nodded. "Say it."

"I will learn to trust men again." It was surprisingly easier to speak when he had no contact with my bare skin.

"Good. As I count down from ten, you will rise out of your trance. When I click my fingers on zero, you will be completely aware again." I nodded. "Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five." I felt the fog over my mind lifting. "Four. Three. Two. One. Zero." He snapped his fingers, and suddenly I jerked awake. I was furious, more so than I'd ever been in my entire life. "You. You – pathetic excuse for a human being! How could you do that?"

"It was instructive, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I spat. "But you went and forced me to answer questions about something _private!_ I barely know you!"

"There was nothing forced about that," he said calmly. "It takes a willing or unsuspecting person to be hypnotised, and you were definitely not the latter."

"Go to hell," I snarled, storming a few feet from him.

"Uh… no. Don't think I will, thanks."

"Ugh!" He was infuriating. "You are _so annoying!_ How does anyone stand you?"

"I used to be much worse, believe me." He was completely unashamed.

"What happened?" Despite my fury, I was curious.

"I went on an interview and openly mocked a serial killer – Red John. He murdered my family as punishment." I stopped dead in shock and turned on the ball of my foot.

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry." The look in his eyes was cold. "I joined the CBI to find him. He'll eventually slip up after another murder, and then I'll be there."

"You'll kill him?" I said softly.

"What else?" he said simply. "I don't want him jailed. Nothing is punishment enough except death." It was at that moment I realised that the man I stood with on an empty sidewalk was seriously scarred. "Good luck to you, Patrick Jane." My voice was barely a whisper, and with that, I went back inside and took a seat back on the swivel chair. I picked up my book, but all I could do was stare blankly at the page, the letters blurring before my eyes.


	3. How To Pick A Liar

A/N: This chapter is quite short; sorry. DOES ANYONE WANT A RELATIONSHIP? Cos now is definitely the time to say so.

Jane and I didn't speak after that, and it was with a brief goodbye that I left the CBI building with Teresa. "How was Jane?" she chuckled dryly.

"Good," I said distractedly.

"You ok?" she asked. I decided to come clean.

"He told me about his family," I said quietly. My aunt sucked in a sharp breath.

"He did? What did he say?"

"Told me the whole story. About Red John murdering them." Softer now: "The fact he was going to kill him."

"He told me too," she admitted. "I tried to persuade him not to promise something like that, but what can you do? The man killed his wife, and his young daughter." I nodded. I felt rather numb inside at the thought. Jane didn't seem like the killing type; but then, what did I know? We'd barely met. His eyes had just seemed so full of hatred.

That night I watched my aunt as she read through files at her desk – it seemed as if the weight of the world lay on her shoulders, and instinctively I knew she was worried. Her eyes had dark grey circles under them, and her back curved in an arc of weariness. Her answers to any questions of mine were quiet and short. She was worried about Jane, probably. I was too. His face as he had promised to see Red John dead haunted my waking hours and my dreams as well, and some part of me had a terrible, ominous feeling.

The next day, as it was Friday, began much like the first. I followed Teresa into work and sat in the abandoned swivel chair, reading a book. This time the silence between Jane and I lasted for a full ten minutes before he broke it. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" he murmured. I nodded silently and followed him down a hallway, out of earshot of Cho, Rigsby and van Pelt. "Sorry if I freaked you out yesterday."

"It's ok," I muttered. "Sorry I got so mad."

"It's fine. I know why you were upset, and maybe I overstepped a little."

"It just felt like that night all over again." The fact that I had been affected so deeply had obviously not occurred to him, and he looked stricken, before wiping the emotion off his face. "Are you still up for me to teach you?" he asked.

"Yes. No more hypnotism though, or you'll pay for it." He chose not to make a smart remark, and instead just nodded. He held out an arm in an old fashioned, courtly gesture. "Shall we?" Chuckling, I linked arms with him and followed Jane out the door. This time he didn't lead me outside – soon we went down the stairs and into a small basement space. It looked furnished out like a home. "Do you _live _here?" I chuckled.

"Sometimes." He wasn't laughing, and the temperature in the room dropped abruptly. Softly, he said, "I couldn't face my actual house. The smiley Red John left on the wall…"

"I heard. A weeping smiley face drawn in blood, the first thing the victim's discoverer sees. His trademark, isn't it?" Patrick stayed silent; the question had no answer. "I don't always stay here. Most of the time I stay at home. I sleep under Red John's drawing as a reminder." Revenge was clearly the motive there. Sit down," Jane said, trying to warm up the conversation. We both took seats on the couch, me a little further from him, and Jane began, his eyes flicking quickly to the space between us. "I don't believe you need any further instruction in hypnotism," he said. I snorted.

"No, I don't think so. Shall we move on?"

"Let's."

"Well, next is body language. It's very important to be observant – even the tiniest of movements can give away if someone's lying."

"Like what?" He spread his hands wide.

"Well, for instance, there's fidgeting. This is one of the common ones – someone will be playing with their hair, fiddling with jewellery, their clothes, et cetera. Another little tic is eye patterns. When someone is telling a story, look at the direction his or her eyes move in. If they move to _your _right, they're creating an impression or something to tell you. Left means they're remembering something. Remember though, that's just the basics; there are exceptions to the rule and it's not perfectly reliable. Best thing is to look at someone's regular eye patterns first, then pick discrepancies." I tried to take all the information in.

"But how do you know that the eye patterns you're comparing from aren't irregular?"

"You don't," he said simply, "but no one lies constantly. It's very wearing for most people. Unless you're dealing with a pathological liar, it isn't likely to happen."

"And if you are?" I smiled.

"Then you're basically screwed. You have to trip them up some other way. That's where manipulation comes in, though if they're smart it won't fool them."

"People with antisocial disorders are difficult, aren't they?" I chose my words carefully. Patrick's smile in return was mocking and shining with perfectly white teeth. "You're trying to decide if I'm some sort of high functioning sociopath or psychopath. In answer – no I'm not. I'm manipulative, a liar, an egomaniac and I don't feel bad about the games I play, but I have no violent urges. I love. I would never hurt an innocent." Still I looked slightly suspicious.

"If you were a psychopath of course you'd say that."

"True. I guess you'll never know." His grin stayed pasted on his smug face.

I didn't think he was a sociopath anyway – his love for his wife and daughter seemed very real. Nevertheless, my guard was up. I'd done a bit of research, and from what I'd seen on sociopath forums and websites of psychologists, it seemed that sociopaths were created through trauma, like the death of Jane's family, and could have a kind of obsessive 'love', or something they believed was similar to the emotion. Certainly the kind of obsessiveness that could drive someone to revenge over said lover's death. Sociopaths couldn't empathise or feel guilt, so he wouldn't have any qualms over Red John's murder…. only time would tell whether he had a psychosis. There was a lot more to Patrick Jane than met the eye.


	4. A Message

A/N: If anyone wants romance to be a part of this, now is the time to say so…

"So, I've taught you the theory of manipulation, suggestion, hypnosis, lie detecting and body language reading," Patrick said. "But so far you've yet to prove you have any talent when it comes to real people. For that reason, when I go out to do some sniffing around, I want you to come with me." I was hesitant.

"How will Lisbon feel about this?"

"She'll be fine. I'll _make _her be fine." I didn't like the sound of that, and I told him as much. "Teresa always sees the sense in what I do," he laughed. "It'll be alright."

Later, much to my surprise, he was proved right. "You can keep him out of trouble a bit," she laughed. "Make sure he doesn't annoy someone so much they sue us. I swear to God, the CBI spends a fortune on cleaning up your messes, Jane. Our lawyers are getting to their wits' end."

"I doubt I'll be of much help in that endeavour," I admitted. "You trust him to go alone?"

"Against my better judgement, yes," she sighed. Jane looked on with mock horror. "I'm perfectly trustworthy, Teresa."

"Get out," she snapped good-naturedly, "before I change my mind." Patrick and I beat a hasty retreat out the door.

We jumped in the CBI-issue SUV, then drove first to the home of Annabelle Henderson's only friend, Jennifer Kate. Before we began, a small lie was concocted to explain my presence. "Say you're on work experience with the CBI because you want to be a criminal investigator one day. It wouldn't hurt to tell her about your relation to Lisbon either. It's a good thing you look older than fourteen." I nodded, my cheeks slightly pink at the compliment. A good cover story would be essential if the witness was going to trust me. We knocked on the door, and presently a woman of about fifty, with blonde hair and blue eyes opened the door. "Can I help you?" Patrick was all charm and smiles as he answered, flipping out a badge and showing it to the woman.

"My name's Patrick Jane," he said. "I'm with the CBI, and we're investigating the murder of Annabelle Henderson. This is Lily Tanner." I gave him a quick, sharp look. _When had he found out my last name?_ "She's my… protégé, if you will." My lips quirked in a smile. I liked that. "I'm on work experience with the CBI," I continued. "My aunt's name is Teresa Lisbon – perhaps you've met her?"

"Yes, I think I remember her," she said. "She came and told me about Annabelle's death."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Patrick said. "May we come inside and ask you a few questions?"

"How well did you know Annabelle?" Jane asked. I looked on attentively, a small notepad and pen in hand. Jennifer's pale blue eyes were ringed with dark grey circles, and her voice was subdued as she spoke. "We were good friends. We used to go out for coffee most weekends. We met at a café and got talking."

"Thank you," said Jane. I could see him reading her even as I was. All I'd picked up so far was a genuinely grieving woman. "Did she have any enemies?"

"No." She sighed. "And that's what saddens me most. She was poisoned, but I can't see any reason for it."

"No children?" I enquired.

"None." She shook her head.

"No relatives?"

"A sister in Oregon, but she rarely visits." Jane nodded at me and I fell silent.

"Would you mind taking a look round, Alice?" he directed me.

"Wait – I'm not sure I want a teenager poking through my things," Jennifer objected.

"Don't worry, Mrs Kate," I said soothingly. "Just standard police procedure. I'll take the utmost care, I promise. I'm sure you want to be of as much help to the police as you can." Mollified by this, she nodded and smiled. I wandered through the house, checking out her stuff – but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. "Thank you for your time," Jane was saying as I re-entered the lounge. I followed him out the door.

"She's not the killer," we said simultaneously.

"Well, obviously," said Patrick. "She displayed signs of genuine grief. Anything suspicious in the house?"

"Nothing," I confirmed. "Just a middle-aged woman's stuff. No photos, which doesn't surprise me."

"Well," the consultant sighed, "that was a superlatively useless exercise."

"No kidding. She couldn't murder a fly."

Back at CBI we filled Teresa's team in. "Jennifer Kate – best friend of the victim," Jane said. "And as innocent as an angel's smile."

"So, still no leads." Lisbon's whole sentence was a sigh.

"Not one," I said miserably. I had so wanted it to be that easy.

"Let's not give up yet. Did forensics find any DNA around the crime scene? Blood? Hair?" Jane asked, looking faintly disgusted himself. Grace shook her head.

"Not a trace. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was Red John." I saw a look of pain cross Patrick's face briefly, then he answered in the harsh, brutal fashion he used when talking of death. "No. Red John liked to cut his victims. Slice them up into ribbons and draw the face with their blood." Now it was Grace's turn to look revolted, though she mastered her emotions soon enough. "You're right."

Jane looked gloomy and distracted. "I'm going for a walk," he said. Surprising the whole room, he turned to me. "Wanna come?"

"Sure," I smiled warmly. He needed company, that was for sure, and Lisbon was too busy to give it. I looked enquiringly at her, and my aunt nodded assent. With that, Jane and I walked out the door.

We headed down the footpath and across the road to a park. This first leg of our journey was made in silence. Finally, Patrick spoke. "You were good back there. With Jennifer and Lisbon." I laughed.

"If first impressions are anything to go by, the witness didn't trust me at all. Obviously she doesn't like kids."

"But you smoothed it over," Jane explained. "You charmed her thoroughly, and that, at the very least, proves you've been paying attention. And Lisbon loves you."

"She's my aunt."

"Charm is charm is charm." Suddenly I felt irritated, though it was difficult to explain why.

"I don't want to be manipulative like you," I snapped. Jane paused and turned, looking me in the eyes. "Not much you can do about that. You're a natural."

"Well, maybe I don't want to be." I realised how close he was and backed away. With that realisation came a second – I was alone with him. There was no one around and the afternoon could easily become a repeat of _that night_. Reason told me that I could trust Jane, that he had been nothing but helpful in his own twisted way – but gut instinct told me to run. I didn't quite do that, but I backed off. "Let me be decent for a change," I grumbled. "Don't compliment me for being devious." I stomped off.

_Alice didn't reappear for five minutes, by which time Jane was getting a slight bit worried. Before long, however, she returned – but something was wrong. Her eyes were glazed and a dark red 'something' stained her hand. As she approached, she stopped dead right in front of Patrick, and some sort of light returned to her eyes. _

"Jane!" I gasped, as I snapped out of my imprisoned trance. I could feel myself shaking like a leaf at what I'd just experienced. "It was… Red John…" Patrick's face turned cold, and he gripped me by the shoulders, ignoring my involuntary shiver as I squirmed in his grip. "Tell me _exactly _what happened."

"I just turned a corner and he was there. He hypnotised me and told me to deliver a message."

"What does Red John have to say?"

"Patrick," I said, calling him by his given name for the first time. "Before I tell you I think you should know something. I didn't figure it out until just then, but… Red John was the one that raped me." If anything, Patrick's fury increased. "He says to tell you that he's glad you're finally getting over your wife…. And he wants me to tell you…." It was difficult for me to get the words out. "That he thinks I'm good in bed, for future reference." The implication of it was embarrassing, and I dropped my head in shame. I could feel my cheeks burning, no doubt colouring a deep red. "I didn't want to tell you, but the hypnosis forced me to."

"He's a despicable bastard. It's just the sort of thing he would say." The whole thing sent shivers down my spine.

"He's still out there," I whispered "If he finds me, he'll kill me, and you can bet it won't be quick. He'll make me suffer."

"How do you know it was him that hurt you?" I could hear how desperate Patrick was to find that it was someone else, that the psychotic killer hadn't engineered everything for our lives to intertwine in this way. "No," I said quietly. "I know. He called me a special name that first night, and then again just now."

"What did he say?" Jane asked, voice heavy with dread.

"Hello, Little Lolita."


	5. Playing The Blame Game

Neither Patrick nor I felt like staying at the park after the incident with Red John. Jane was fuming about having come so close to his revenge, and his rage rolled off him in waves, showing off the formidable force he truly was. I stayed out of his way, to say the least.

I was still shaky after my close brush with death – I just stayed sitting, reading a book. However, my peace was not to last. About ten minutes before Teresa and I usually left, Jane spoke up. "Why didn't you run?" I heard the accusing note in his voice and immediately my hackles rose.

"He pointed a gun at me."

"Wasn't there time before that?"

"No!" I snapped. "Stop being so accusing. Just because you didn't catch your enemy… If it weren't for you I wouldn't have ever become a target!"

"How do you figure that?"

"He engineered this," I snarled. "He wanted to mess with your head, so he chose _me_. He knew we'd eventually meet because of my connection to Lisbon, and then he just played his merry games." My tone was bitter and cynical. "Made this up all for his amusement."

"I couldn't have possibly known any of this." Jane was getting more furious by the second, yet I recklessly continued on my path. "But it's still _your fault_. I can't cope, knowing he's still out there."

My voice had risen louder and louder, and Teresa, Grace, Kimball and Wayne geared themselves for a massive argument. Even I could see where it was all going, but it was too late to go back now.

"Then leave! Go on, get out of my sight!" Jane tutted. His voice was still a calm, level monotone, laced with a hard, cold edge.

"Maybe I will," I chuckled, though there was little mirth in the sound.

"I think it's our cue to leave," Lisbon put in. As we turned to go, I heard five words slip from Jane's lips. "She's just a mamma's girl." I stopped dead.

"What did you say?"

"You're a mamma's girl. Look, you've still got her milk on your lip."

"You're just trying to bait me," I spat.

"And it's working," he chuckled, but his tone turned harsh. "You can't handle life, so you creep home and hide from the world. Go on, go back to mamma."

"And you're stuck in your own despairing hole. You can't forget what happened to your family, even after all these years," I sneered. "You're so bent on revenge that it's destroying you from the inside out."  
"At least I'm reasonable," he shrugged. "It doesn't take much and then _bam_, you go completely insane."

"Oh, you are such a twit." I'll admit it wasn't the best insult, but I was thoroughly pissed.

"Bimbo."

"Creep!"

"Psycho!"

"Bastard!"

"Slut!"

With that, I launched myself at him, clawing and scratching. Of course, Teresa held me back. "What the hell, Jane!" Teresa yelled. "Too far." After a few moments I was calm enough to pull free from her clutches. "It's okay. I won't rip him to pieces, though it would give me a lot of satisfaction." I turned to Jane. "I hope you're happy. My mother's dying of cancer, in case you didn't realise. Of course I'd be more attached to her now! And how dare you call me a slut?"

"You'll find I'm rather brave when faced with a _fourteen year old girl _who's half my height. In answer: very easily." By now he had stood and was facing me, his face an inch from mine. "Personal space," I said waspishly.

"I thought _whores _weren't fussy?"

"I will smack you," I threatened. Tears threatened to bubble over my lids, but I forced them down. I wouldn't descend into despair.

"And I'll arrest you for assaulting a police officer," Patrick said quietly.

"Oh will you, _consultant_?" I jeered.

"I've already got enough to mount a case," he said casually. "The way you tried to claw my eyes out earlier is classed as assault."

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," I sneered.

"We should go," Teresa murmured. "Leave this while you still can."

"Ok," I replied. Turning back to Jane I spat out a final insult.

"I hope you never catch Red John." In typical Patrick fashion, he wanted the last word, and spoke. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice. "I don't want to see you back here again. If I do, I'm not going to be held responsible for what happens next." You could have heard a pin drop. I turned on my heel and picked up my bag. "Leave, is that what you want? With pleasure."

I stalked out.


	6. Forgive and Forget

A/N: This is the second last chapter of part one – I'll finish that on chapter seven, then continue part two, which might be shorter. Also, I'm sorry if our dear Patrick Jane is a bit bipolar, weird or generally a tad OOC in this chapter or the previous one – I enjoy writing his darker side and hopefully I didn't go overboard.

I was absolutely furious – but first I apologised to my aunt for the scene I'd caused. "It's fine," Teresa said. "He's a complete idiot sometimes. Usually I like him to a certain extent, but that side of him makes me reconsider. You might want to invest in some anger management classes, however." The last sentence was a chuckle.

"Be that as it may, I really do want to slap him," I grumbled.

"Better not." I nodded reluctantly.

"You're right. He'd probably slap me back." The simple admission shocked Teresa, but I realised it was right. "He's not usually violent. He hates fighting," she said uncertainly. "I think he might make an exception, after my little display," I sighed bitterly. "Though he contributed to it."

That night, I sat up in my room, trying to think through what my next move would be. Red John was still on the loose, and that meant I was in constant danger. He was toying with both Patrick and I, but sooner or later he would tire of that and kill one or both of us. I still wondered who he was – was it someone deep in the CBI, or a total stranger? Really, I didn't know much of his history at all. The one thing that truly haunted me was Jane's face as I'd turned on him for the last time. His eyes were full of utter contempt, and how did the old saying go? The eyes are the windows to the soul. I tried to pass it off as anger in the heat of the moment, but some small part of me doubted that. And then there was Red John… what would I do?

Over the next few days I grew steadily more stressed. Teresa had no choice but to leave me alone at home, and I couldn't stand it. I walked around continually, never staying on one thing more than ten minutes before nervousness sent me back to pacing back and forth across the floors of my house. I had a terrible, ominous feeling that the serial killer would be back to finish me off, and it set me to wondering why I'd escaped alive from him thus far. I finally came upon the answer – he wanted to draw out the suspense, and continue the game of cat and mouse for as long as it amused him. The thought chilled me.

By my third day of solitude, I was convinced that I was going to go mad. I kept hearing footsteps creaking outside and my heart would begin to race, before I realised it was just the wind. When Teresa returned that night, I spoke simply. "Can I come with you tomorrow?" She looked reluctant.

"I don't want another tantrum from Jane."

"I need to get out of the house," I pleaded. "I keep hearing things and imagining it's Red John, back to get me. I'll make peace with Jane, do whatever." She sighed.

"I see your point. It's probably not doing you any good, here alone. If only your mom was allowed to have visitors." At mention of my mother, a fresh stab of pain hit me. "Yeah," I said quietly. "This summer break really isn't turning out one of my best." She sighed.

"You can come," Lisbon eventually agreed. "Patrick will just have to deal with it."

So, I would return to the headquarters of the California Bureau of Investigation, and further to the room housing the Serious Crimes division. As we neared the door, I breathed in and out slowly. I couldn't rise to Jane's gibes, or get stuck in a fight with him. Nevertheless, I remembered his threat from earlier, and a chill ran down my spine. _"I don't want to see you back here again. If I do, I'm not going to be held responsible for what happens next." _Lisbon entered and I trailed behind her. The rest of the team seemed surprised to see me back, and frankly I couldn't blame them. My gaze swept swiftly to Jane, and he locked eyes with me. "Lisbon, did your cat drag that in?" There was a soft flutter of shock from Grace and Rigsby. Cho was as stony faced as usual.

"Nice to see you too, Jane," I shot back.

"I'm not sure I remember saying that it was nice to see you, actually, Lily – in fact, you've rather _ruined _my morning."

"What a shame." I plastered a sugary fake smile on my lips. "I wonder if you have a spare chair?"

"In fact, we don't," Jane smiled snidely, spreading his arms wide. "What a pity."

"Jane, don't be argumentative," Lisbon sighed. She retrieved the swivel chair and I took it gratefully, placing myself on the opposite side of the room, as far from the mentalist as I could get. "Don't mind me."

"In fact, could I talk to you for a moment? Come out into the hallway," Jane asked. His tone was falsely warm, but his eyes were like ice – that was what I didn't trust. "Uh, no – don't think I will, thanks," I said distrustfully, mocking his choice of words from our argument outside the CBI that day. "Not going anywhere with you." He smirked.

"Don't trust me? Dear me, I wonder why." I snorted despite myself.

"You're so ridiculous. In case you don't remember, you threatened me three days ago – blah blah blah, something about not being responsible for your actions if I reared my beautiful head?"

"Hah!" Obviously his laughter was related to my 'beautiful head' comment. "Beautiful? I think not."

"Ooh, burn," I said scathingly. "I'm really offended."

"Well, that was precisely the intention, my dear."

"Note the sarcasm. And since when have I been dear to you in any sense of the word?" I enquired bitingly.

"Before I realised you were completely insane," he said coldly, "I thought you might be half decent." I could see Lisbon building up a sigh, lines crinkling round her forehead. "Save it, Jane," I snapped. "Whatever your problem is with me – put it aside."

"Huh. Not in the mood for arguing today, I see. That makes a nice change."

"You're just trying to provoke me into a full on shouting match, and I'm telling you, I won't have it."

"Your choice."

The atmosphere between Jane and I was positively electrical, and everyone knew it. Cho shot Jane a dirty look – obviously he didn't like him bullying a fourteen year old. Next came a move that surprised everyone. "I can't stand it!" Jane sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, Lily. I was being an idiot."

"That's ok, I guess. Just never insult me again." Something in the way Jane spoke wasn't quite right. "Do you want to come with me and interview some witnesses? I need to see if anyone saw Red John."

"People who can identify Red John end up dead."

"But you haven't," he reminded me. That was true. I nodded.

"Ok," I said reluctantly. "Bye guys." I shot a little wave round the room. Only Lisbon returned it – all the others were preoccupied with their respective tasks.

I followed Jane out, and as soon as I got to his car, I knew it was a mistake. Closer he stepped, until he was an inch from me. "You don't trust me. Smart girl." I stepped back. "You're still mad, I see," I said, faking unconcernedness. "I never should have followed you."

"Probably not." He stepped close again and gripped me by the wrists. "But it was easy enough to fool you." I tried to rip myself out of his grasp, but the lock he had on me was like iron. "Easy enough to fool Lisbon, maybe, but not me. I sensed something wasn't right, but if I protested I would have looked bad."

"Excuses, excuses."

"So what happens now?" I challenged. "Going to arrest me? On what charge?"

"How does 'consorting with a murderer' sound?"

"Red John? You bastard. You'll never get enough evidence."

"Perhaps not – maybe that isn't the best form of revenge anyway."

"Why do you need revenge?" I sighed. "What have I done that's so terrible?" That stopped Jane in his tracks.

"You insulted me."

"Alright," I said, "I apologise." I tried to be as genuine as possible. "But you insulted me too."

"You blamed me for a situation I didn't cause."

"I shouldn't have," I said contritely. "Let's both accept responsibility for the situation; forgive and forget." I wanted him to _let go_.

"That was a very hurried and rushed apology – methinks you just want me to let you go." His eyes softened. "You need to learn to trust again." He released my wrists and I rubbed them, red marks already visible where he had held me tightly.

"How can I do that if he's still out there?" I sighed.

"It's perfectly reasonable to be afraid of Red John," he said, "but I don't see why you think all men are out to get you."

"I _don't_, that's the thing," I stressed. "It's instinct. Whenever someone touches me in anything more than a brush up against them, it triggers flashbacks."

"I won't hurt you," he said softly.

"I wish my body knew that," I said, quieter still. Jane reached to lay a hand on my shoulder, and I shied away.

"Don't touch me!" I snapped, more harshly than I'd intended. His face closed off, and I knew I'd messed up whatever chance I had of making up with him.

"Fine. Shall we go?"

"You were actually telling the truth?" I said guardedly.

"Of course," he said blandly. "The truth. Darth Vader? Luke's father." I opened the door of the SUV and sat in the front passenger seat, and he followed.

We were now headed to the next-door neighbour of the dead woman, a Miss Honey. "Keep up the charade," Jane said coldly. I shot him a look and nodded, then knocked on the door. "Katherine Honey?" he greeted the twenty-something woman who answered the door. "Hi. My name's Patrick Jane – I'm a consultant with the California Bureau of Investigation. This is the CBI intern, Lily."

"Hey," I said.

"What can I do for you?" Katherine asked.

"We're investigating the murder of your neighbour, Annabelle Henderson."

"I heard about that," she sighed. "It's pretty sad. Would you like to come in?"

"Thanks," answered Patrick, once more all charm and smiles. We sat down in her front living room. "We know who murdered her," he said gravely.

"Who was it?"

"A serial killer that goes by the pseudonym Red John. He's openly claimed responsibility to taunt us, but he's very difficult to catch."

"Oh no," she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. So far, all I could pick up was genuine confusion. She was young. My eyes flicked to a faded stamp on her palm – it looked similar to ones I'd seen on the hands of people coming out of a club called Tempest. The faint hint of her perfume was flowery and sweet, but there was something else there – a waft of man's cologne. "Where's your boyfriend?" I asked casually. She looked taken aback. "How did you know?"

"I can smell his cologne," I smiled. "And there's no ring or mark on your finger." Jane shot me a sharp look, tinged with pride. I kept my face blank. Katherine looked slightly shell shocked by my perception. "Annabelle was killed at about one in the morning, according to our forensics team," Patrick continued. "Where were you at that point?"

"I was at home, asleep," Katherine responded. "My boyfriend can vouch for me. I'd come home about an hour ago from a club."

"Tempest?" I enquired. She nodded, eyes flicking to the faded mark on her wrist.

"Ok," he replied. "Did you hear anything? See anyone? Was there anyone suspicious at the club?"

"Nothing," she said, "I'm sorry. Jake was asleep the whole time as well." I could see genuine, detached sadness of the kind often associated with deaths of strangers, and her demeanour was calm – she'd answered his questions truthfully.

We returned to the CBI and Jane informed everyone of what we'd found – which was nothing. Red John never left any traces, according to Grace van Pelt. "He never makes mistakes," Jane said. There was a kind of brutal understanding of Annabelle's death in his eyes.

I returned home with Lisbon, who dropped me off. "I'm going out for drinks with the others," she told me. "Call me if you need anything." She pressed a scrap of paper with a cell phone number on it into my palm and I pocketed it. Fifteen minutes later, she left. I was alone.


	7. Did You Miss Me?

This is the last chapter of the first half! Have fun, kiddies! Expect some drama in this chapter, chapter eight and onwards, and some more interest toward the middle of part two. We meet my Red John now, but just so you know, I have no idea who he is… so this is me making it up as I go along, based on some vague hunches. Let the angst, attempted murder and Jane Pain commence!

_There is nothing to be afraid of_, I told myself firmly. If only I actually believed it. The only way to distract myself from fear was by doing something, so I sat down on the couch and channel surfed randomly. I picked a movie and tried to focus, but it was no good. By the time a good forty minutes had passed, I abandoned my efforts. There was something wrong here; I could sense it – the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and the air was laced with an icy chill. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

When I opened them, the entire house went dark. _Oh God._ Moments later, however, light returned – and with it, a message. Stuck on the glass panel of my front door was a note.

_Did you miss me?_

_I'll be here soon. _

_Red John _

My blood turned to ice. He was coming for me. How long did I have? Adrenalin kicked in and I grabbed my phone and the scrap of paper with Lisbon's number on it. I dialled in a blur and waited impatiently for her to pick up. When at last she did, I made an effort to sound as calm as possible. "I hate to ruin your evening, Teresa, but Red John's on his way."

"_What? How do you know?"_ The crackly voice on the other end was filled with panic. "He turned off the power, planted a note and then turned it back on. He'll be here soon."

"_Just stay calm. Whatever you do, hide. If he finds you, try and distract him. I'll be here soon with backup." _

"Jane will want to be here for this."

"_I know." _With that, the line went dead. There was nothing to do but wait, so I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. Any sort of weapon was better than nothing, I figured. I ran upstairs and into my bedroom, slamming the door. Oh, how I wished I had a lock. I was practically a sitting duck – maybe a sitting duck with a sharp, pointy knife.

Two minutes later, I knew he had arrived. I heard the creak of the front door opening, and the muffled sound of speech. A faint snarl of frustration told me my hunter hadn't found what he wanted, but my fear redoubled as he climbed the stairs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are…." The slight speech impediment made no difference to how his words affected me – namely, I was terrified. My bedroom door burst open, and there he stood. "Tyger, tyger, burning bright…"

The rest of the William Blake poem ran through my mind as Red John completed the first stanza. "In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?" He was tall, with balding silver hair and a lightly lined face.

"Have you wondered when I'd be back for a visit?"

"Don't come any closer," I warned, brandishing the kitchen knife. He chuckled.

"You think you'll get anywhere with that?" He pulled out a handgun. "Drop the knife." I obeyed reluctantly. "Downstairs, please," he ordered in a silky smooth voice. I was led down to the bottom storey at gunpoint, where the still unidentified Red John sat me down, and taped my ankles to a chair. It seemed like the end, but I'd be damned if I was going down without a fight.

He took the knife from where it had fallen and twirled it expertly, seemingly fascinated by the gleaming silver, spinning in the light. "Thank you for providing me with such a useful weapon." He was determined to mock me to the best of his abilities – but I wasn't having it. I drew in a huge breath and screamed, but in a moment the sound was cut off by a hand across my mouth. "Don't scream," he said harshly, "or I'll kill you even slower than I'd first intended." I shook off the restraining hand.

"What sort of human does this? You're a full blown psychopath!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." He closed in, resting the knifepoint on my stomach. "I think I'll leave a message for Patrick," he said smoothly. "In your blood. After I've had my fun, of course." He looked me up and down. I shivered, but bit back.

"What has struck me," I spat, "is that you and Patrick are rather similar. If it weren't for the serial killer streak, you could have led a normal life like him."

"What a pity," laughed Red John patronisingly. "I'll be cut up for days over that…. Oh wait… I won't." It was then that I realised that reasoning with his good side was impossible, simply because he lacked one. The internal moral compass that guided most of us was absent in him. As Red John prepared to make the first cut, I glared at him straight in the eyes, face twisted in hatred.

"Freeze!" came a shout, and relief washed over me in waves. "Put the weapons down!" snarled a voice. A full CBI raid team came thundering through my front door, all training guns on the murderous hunter. The Serious Crimes team followed – Jane, Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby and van Pelt. My aunt let out a small gasp. "Betram." Red John dropped the knife and carefully laid the firearm down on the floor. "You got me," he smirked. "How?"

"You idiot. I called them." I rolled my eyes. "They were all in a bar ten minutes away."

"Dammit!" he cursed. "Cellphones. Stupid technology. If it weren't for that you would have died. I cut the phone lines." As Teresa reached for her cuffs, Patrick put a hand on her arm. "Allow me."

"I'm the agent here," she argued. He merely looked at her.

"Please." She sighed in resignation and nodded, handing them over. Jane approached Red John and pulled his arms behind his back. "Betram Gale, you are under arrest on twenty seven counts of murder, including that of Angela Ruskin Jane and Charlotte Anne Jane. You have the right to remain silent, but be aware that anything you do say will be held against you and used as evidence in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney – if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you." As he read the rights, I was busy ripping off the tape that bound me. As such, I was in a prime spot to hear his next words. Jane whispered so quietly that I'm sure no one but me heard him. "I'll cut you up and watch you die slowly, just like you did with Angie and Charlotte. Enjoy your last night, Red John." I turned away, more than slightly nauseous. I had known it was coming, but the reality of how broken he was crashed down on my shoulders like a tidal wave. A tear fell from my eye, but nobody noticed – not even Patrick. That in itself was a bad sign. I stepped forward and touched him on the shoulder. "Don't," I murmured.

"You heard?"

"Yes."

"Then you have to realise that denying me my revenge won't bode well for you. Everyone has to be held responsible for their actions."

"Teresa isn't going to just stand there and let you cut him up."

"Like I'd do it in front of her."

"Obviously not." I rolled my eyes. "But you'll be the first person she looks to."

"Red John has plenty of enemies," Jane said calmly.

"Please don't do this," I pleaded. "I may barely know you, but I couldn't bear to see you murder just for vengeance." His face was completely expressionless, and that was the worst thing of all. It felt like one of the sad sort of scenes you see in movies – except for the fact that it was all too real.

"I have another attack to add to his list of sins," Jane said, his jaw clenched.

"I'm not dead," I said softly. He leant down and gripped my shoulders, looking straight into my eyes. "You almost were. If we'd been a minute later than we were, I'd be looking at your mutilated corpse on the floor right now, and I think I'd go mad." There was nothing to say to that. "If you think he deserves to live, think on his crimes – almost all of his _twenty seven _murder victims were women, and before he killed them, he liked to wake them in their beds. He liked to see the fear in their eyes, liked to hear them scream and beg for the mercy that he never even considered giving." I'm embarrassed to say that those words drove me to tears that fell silently down my cheeks and hitched my chest with sobs. He tightened his grip and pulled me into a light hug. He smelled like crisp men's cologne, and the material of his suit was soft against my cheek. "It's okay," he murmured. Suddenly I knew with certainty that he had been a wonderful father to Charlotte. Something inside me cracked. "I'm sorry," I choked, heaving in shaky breaths.

"It's fine," he whispered. "Given everything you've been through, it's not surprising. Post traumatic stress is usually a delayed reaction. People hold it together during the actual event, but get pretty upset afterwards." I loosened myself reluctantly from his comforting hold to find Lisbon giving Jane a warm smile that quickly faded as she caught me staring. "I do have the capacity to be a good person, you know," Patrick quipped. I knew by now that it was his way of returning the situation to his favour, but this time it didn't quite work – I hoped he realised that my apology extended to more than just my tears. As we left the scene of Red John's last crime, my eyes were steely.

I sat through an interminable interview with Lisbon, but in my favour, it didn't take long. My aunt would not return to work that night – she knew I was too shaken up to be left alone. As we left, I shared one last glance with Jane, and I said but three words, softly, so that no one heard.

"Make him suffer."


	8. Part Two: Picking Up The Pieces

I realise my little cliffie in the last chapter probably isn't a healthy attitude for Lily to take, but to me it represents a pivotal change for her – she's on the way to healing. Here begins the second half of this fic, Picking Up The Pieces.

I returned to the CBI the next day with Teresa, a temporary new sense of calm shrouding me. Interestingly enough, Jane arrived the same time we did. As we entered the Serious Crimes office, Cho approached the three of us. "Bertram Gale is dead," he said simply. Although I'd had an inkling that it might happen, the revelation was still a shock. My revolutionary good mood was gone. "Stabbed through the chest. The blade's still there." As I'd anticipated, Lisbon turned on Jane.

"Did you do this?"

"No. I was going to, believe me – I went to visit him, but when I arrived he was already dead." I looked him in the eyes, and knew he was lying. My aunt went into boss mode. "Take the knife and check it for prints," she ordered. Cho stayed where he was. "Before I do, boss, you should know that Gale left a note."

"What does it say?"

"I've got it here." He handed her a piece of paper in a zip lock evidence bag, and she began to read through the plastic. "My time is now. Though I have finally been caught, I do not consider my life wasted – I have enjoyed it to the full extent one can. If you are reading this, Patrick Jane, know that I have taken my own life in order to escape you – but you will never escape me. I will haunt you, and I did not want to suffer through a slow death at your hand merely to achieve that end. What a pity you refused my friendship. Bon nuit."

"Well, that sick bastard got his comeuppance," Patrick said evenly.

"Prints," Lisbon said to Cho, before retreating to her office.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" I murmured to Patrick. He nodded and we took our by now familiar route out of the room and down to Patrick's hermit-like cave in the CBI. I rounded on him. "Did you kill Red John?"

"You heard me," Jane said, the ghost of a smirk playing about his lips. "He committed suicide."

"Cut the crap," I snapped. "You all but _told _me what you were going to do last night. In fact, you made it more than plain." I looked him straight in the eyes, daring him to deny it.

"If, hypothetically, I had somehow murdered Red John," Jane said slowly, "would you turn me in?"

"No," I said reluctantly. "You had your reasons."

"Well," he continued, a creepy smile quirking his mouth, "I may have helped him on his way with a little untraceable something. A _painful _something – but all you'll find on that knife are Bertram's prints. The note, too." I nodded slowly. He'd covered his tracks, and he'd done it well – holding the blade in Red John's hand even as he used it. "Poison and a knife wound. Overkill, much?" He merely shrugged.

"Did you clean your fingerprints from his hand?" I enquired.

"Of course," came the careless response. Just before we returned within earshot of the others, he pulled me so that his mouth was inches from my ear. "Tell anyone and you're dead." I merely nodded, heart pounding. What the hell was I doing?

I returned to my customary seat in the office and tried to relax, but it was a difficult task. I buried my head in my copy of 'Lord of the Rings', trying to lose myself in Tolkien's world. Needless to say it didn't work. Murder, as it turned out, was a distracting topic. I couldn't shake the notion that somehow, Betram Gale's death was my fault. Or Red John, as I better knew him. That didn't burden me with any guilt – the serial killer had brutally slaughtered many and tried it on me – but I couldn't stand the idea that Patrick had become a killer.

"You're being ridiculous," he said quietly, his gaze serene.

"How did you…?"

"You looked worried and thoughtful, and what else would be troubling you? You held nothing but hatred for Red John, so you've told me, so you wouldn't be grieving for him – who else would be so very connected to the murder?"

"But… that was very specific."

"You don't like the fact that I've killed a man in cold blood. It _troubles _you." His tone was faintly patronising.

"Shouldn't it?" I said irritably. Frankly I was amazed no one had overheard us.

"Not when the dead man killed so many others."

"I don't feel bad for him," I protested in a whisper. "Just you." Understanding lit his face in the way it so often did, and he grinned.

"On some sort of deeper level, you fear for my soul."

"I don't," I said defensively. He studied my face.

"Liar."

"No," I protested. "I don't fear for your soul; I'm worried about your morality. Revenge is all well and good, but what's the price?"

"Whatever it is, I'll pay it," Patrick said grimly. I sighed.

"Whatever, go ahead. I give up." Jane opened his mouth to reply, but as he did my phone rang, blasting out a tinny rendition of Rihanna's 'S&M'.

_I may be bad but _

_I'm perfectly good at it_

_Sex in the air, I don't care,_

_I love the smell of it_

_Sticks and stones _

_May break my bones_

_But chains and whips excite me _

I felt myself blushing furiously and scrambled to answer it. Jane merely smirked, laughter dancing in his eyes. "Hello?" An unfamiliar voice answered me.

"Miss Tanner?"

"That's me," I confirmed.

"You should know that your mother's been cleared for visitors."

"Finally," I breathed. "How is she?" The voice on the other end of the line was hesitant.

"I'm sorry. We've been treating her for several weeks, but I'm afraid the therapy has been ineffective. The cancer has spread through her body and I'm afraid she's only expected to live for one more day."


	9. Daddy Dearest

Next chapter! I would like you to know that none of the crap that's happened to Lily reflects any part of my actual life. :) The italicised paragraph represents Patrick's POV as I've done before. Sorry if this chapter is depressing, but I couldn't really avoid it.

My whole body was frozen. I wasn't listening to anything the doctor was saying – I was in complete shock. My hand fell limply to my side, the phone clutched weakly in its grip even still. I didn't notice it, but afterward Patrick told me that he'd realised immediately what had happened, simply by my expression. It was the same as his own had been the night of Angela and Charlotte's death. I felt a gentle hand prise the phone from my grip, and a furious voice address the speaker. "This is unbelievable. Why wasn't she notified earlier?" A pause. "I don't care if the treatment was delicate – you've just told a fourteen year old girl that she has one day left with her mother." His anger shook me out of my semi-catatonic state. "This is ridiculous." By now, Teresa was looking on in amazement. I still felt nothing but numbness inside. Patrick was nearly shouting again. "You can bet your sorry ass we'll be in to see her, and don't give us any shit about 'patients being asleep'. Goodbye." He hung up, and wordlessly handed the phone to me.

"Jane!" Teresa hissed. "That was completely out of line!" Jane just looked at her, and there was a kind of wordless chill in his gaze that reminded me of what he'd been through. "_They_," he said deliberately, "are completely incompetent." Teresa came over and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Honey? Are you okay?"

"Hate to butt in, Lisbon," Jane interrupted, "but her mother's dying. She's not okay."

"True," I murmured. "Sorry."

"Sorry," she apologised. "I know that was a bit of a stupid question."

"It's fine." My voice was a flat monotone.

"We need to go see your mom," Teresa insisted. I didn't argue – why would I? My face didn't show any of the surprise I felt at Patrick's next words.

"I want to come too."

"Why?" It was an effort to muster any emotion.

"I'd like to meet her." The simple phrase gave little explanation as to his real motives, but I didn't press the matter. Patrick Jane played his own little games, and I'd find out the purpose of this particular one soon enough. Lisbon bid goodbye to the team, and told them she wouldn't be back that day. Together we piled into her car and sped off.

By that time I'd passed out of my shock and into a swirling pool of denial. It wasn't happening. She wouldn't die – I'd walk into the hospital and find her bright and cheery as she had been before the cancer set in. I did not, however, voice my thoughts aloud. It would only bring a round of sympathy from my aunt, which I didn't need or want. Not yet, anyway. I knew I would soon pass into the anger stage of the grief cycle, and then to bargaining and desperate sadness. If all went as according to psychology textbooks – which it never did. Hypothetically, however, I could then finally accept my mother's passing and the grief would begin to fade.

Listening to my own thoughts, I was reminded of the clinical diagnosis of doctors and psychologists. I was trying to distance myself from everything – especially any trace of fact that might force me to admit to Mom's potential death. _No, _I told myself firmly. _She's not dying_.

By the time we reached the hospital, I needed her more than ever. All three of us walked speedily to the front desk. "We're here to see Hannah Tanner," my aunt said. The bored receptionist replied, "She's only seeing relatives."

"I'm her sister," Lisbon said angrily, "and this is her daughter." The woman looked balefully at Jane. "Who's he?" I looked her straight in the eye.

"He's family." Something in my gaze must have persuaded her, for she merely shrugged and rattled off directions. "Ward 6, room a. Straight down the corridor and turn left."

Soon enough we were at my mother's door, and I knocked softly, then entered. "Mom," I said. She looked thinner than ever, hooked up to an endless amount of tubes and machines – a shrunken, gaunt figure, swathed in blankets and dressed in a hospital gown. It was a desolate picture, to say the least. I immediately went to her and held her tight. Nothing could have prepared me for this. "I love you so much," I whispered fiercely.

"I love you the most, Lily," she murmured in my ear. "Never forget that." I released her reluctantly and stepped back, allowing my aunt time with her dying sister. Her normally composed demeanour had cracked and broken, revealing her real sadness. "I'm sorry," she choked. "I should have come to see you more – done something." My mother waved her apologies away.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Resa," she said. "You were the best sister I could have asked for. Thank you for caring for Lily."

"You're welcome." I was conscious of Patrick hovering in the background. I turned and beckoned him forward as Teresa stepped back again. "Mom, there's someone I'd like you to meet. This is Patrick Jane. He works with Teresa." My mother smiled. "So you're the one that was giving the doctors hell earlier."

"Yes," he admitted unashamedly. "I wanted to tell you that the man who raped your daughter is dead." An enormous weight seemed to lift off Mom's shoulders as she breathed out a sigh. "Thank you. Justice has been served." As I opened my mouth to speak again, someone else entered the room – someone I'd hoped to ignore the existence of.

"What are you doing here?" My voice held nothing but contempt, and I'd carefully crafted an expression one might have upon seeing dog crap on their shoe. "Seeing my dying girlfriend," came the sarcastic response. My almost-stepfather, James Gregory, had come to spoil my reunion with Mom, just like he always spoiled everything. I looked over at Patrick and saw him reading James as he did with every new person he encountered - usually he had a smirk on his face, but this time it was absent. His eyes were cold, his posture ever so slightly tense. James only had three words for my mother – "Hannah, it's over."

"Well, isn't that a relief," came my mom's sardonic reply. "Get your ass out of my house and don't you dare touch my stuff." Jane piped up then.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're an alcoholic, abusive and unemployed. You've been a lazy parasite all your life," the mentalist said casually. I glared at James and placed a finger on my cheek – a bruise there had faded to a sickly yellow. "You're spot on. You've got him to thank for that one." Lisbon and Patrick were both furious.

"I could bust you for child abuse," Patrick said pointedly.

"I'm _going _to bust you for child abuse," Lisbon growled.

I smirked at James. "That's what you get for messing with cops." I smiled at Patrick. "I'm seriously considering joining you guys when I turn eighteen. This is so fun!"

"I look forward to it." His smile was that of a mischievous little boy. Sometimes – times like now – I was firmly convinced that he was a child stuck in a man's body – but then he said or did something that reminded me just how much he'd suffered through in his forty odd years on the planet. It was a strange mixture of old and young that resided within him. "Is there anything else we should charge him with?" my aunt asked me. My mother looked faintly sad.

"No," I said reluctantly.

"I could have loved you, James," Hannah, my eternally strong mother, said quietly. "You just made it so _hard_."

"Oh, boo hoo," he snarled. Turning to me, he left with a final parting threat before Lisbon snapped handcuffs on him. "I'll get you for this, you little bitch."

"Ooh, I'm shaking in my boots," I retorted sarcastically.

As Lisbon led him out, shooting rapid-fire orders into a cellphone, Jane shook his head disbelievingly. "How did you put up with that asshole for fourteen years?"

"Six," I corrected. "He showed up when I was eight."

"Geez." I turned back to Mom and squeezed her hand.

"Sorry. She takes her work seriously."

"She does," Mom agreed. I could hear how ragged her breathing was, and the hand I held was frail and slim. "Listen, honey," she began, "I can't hold on much longer." I felt tears bubble over my lids.

"Don't say that," I whispered. "You'll make it through this."

"I won't," she said softly. "I can feel how weak I am – the cancer's already spread. I've got a few hours left, at most."

"Don't leave me." My voice almost choked off. "You can't." Hannah's face grew serious. "I have to, honey. Don't waste your life grieving for me." Tears streamed down my face, leaving salty rivulets in their wake that dried in seconds. "Now, I have some stuff I need to tell you before I go. Firstly, don't let that slimeball James touch any of the stuff in the house. Keep it safe, please." I nodded.

"Second – be nice to the social worker. They're there to help you. Also, be nice to the people wherever you end up. It doesn't pay to make enemies."

"Yes, Mom."

"I've left everything to you in the will. Teresa is named as the executor – she'll make sure it goes to you." I smiled weakly. What did I care? I'd sacrifice everything I had if it could bring her back. More salty droplets fell from my eyes as I pulled her close.

_Patrick watched as the girl wept over her dying mother; anguish fuelling the sorrowed ache in his chest. She was so like his Charlotte – if she'd grown, he'd have been proud if she'd been half as strong as Lily. Everything she'd been through made him open his mouth. _

"Ms Tanner, your daughter is wonderful." Patrick's voice broke me out of my grief momentarily. "She's been through so much, and I'd hate to see her hurt any more than she already has been. My point is - " Lisbon entered, but he paused only momentarily. Teresa's expression was one of surprise and curiosity, and it matched my own. Jane took a deep breath and spoke once more.

"I want to adopt Lily."


	10. Reach Out And Catch Me

Ha! Bet you didn't see that coming! I figure Patrick needs someone to cling to in the aftermath of Bertram's death, and Lily even more so in the face of her mother's. The song Lily sings to Hannah is an old Irish folk song I learned in choir. You can see my cover of it here: watch?v=HDqBM_XZyOM&feature=g-up

This is a very sad chapter at the beginning, but there's no getting past that. I promise it'll get happier once Lily moves in with Patrick. Also, I decided to steal a sweet Jisbon moment from an episode and twist it for Patrick/Lily use. All innocent, of course... :P

It was my second shock for the day – but this one was far more welcome. "You mean it?" I grinned.

"I'm serious." He was smiling too; a true grin – and I can honestly say it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. "I don't want you to go to a foster home." Teresa was incredulous.

"What's your game, Jane?" she asked suspiciously. "I could take her in." His expression softened.

"I can't ask you to do that. You're far too busy – you've got the whole Serious Crimes division to manage. Let me do this."

"There'll be the social worker to deal with," I warned him.

"I'll be fine, believe me." I did, for once. He had the skills to win anyone over. My mom, however, looked suspicious. "How do I know I can trust you with Lily?" Lisbon spoke. "I can vouch for him. If he promises to care for her, he will." Hannah pursed her lips. "Alright. You're okay with this, Lils?"

"I'd trust him with my life," I said earnestly.

"Thank you," smiled Jane. "That means a lot." I couldn't bring myself to grin back as enthusiastically, but a small smile seemed to suffice.

For the longest time, I sat and held her hand, crying silent tears. Although my future was now secure, with Patrick as my new father, I still wanted things to go back to the way they were. This wasn't possible. So, I would stay by her side, until at last, she left me. An hour passed, and then two.

At last, she spoke, her voice a thread of sound in the silent room. "It's time, sweetheart." This simple admission brought on a fresh wave of tears. I gripped her hand tight. "You're going straight up to heaven."

"I'll be there waiting," she said softly. "Can you sing?"

"Okay." I drew in a deep breath, and thought of the first song that came to mind.

_Oh the summertime is coming_

_And the trees are sweetly blooming_

_And the wild mountain thyme_

_Grows around the purple heather_

_Will ye go, lassie, go?_

_And we'll all go together _

_To pull wild mountain thyme _

_All around the blooming heather_

_Will ye go, lassie, go?_

_I will build my love a bower _

_By yon clear crystal fountain _

_And on it I will pile_

_All the flowers of the mountain _

_Will ye go, lassie, go?_

_And we'll all go together _

_To pull wild mountain thyme _

_All around the blooming heather_

_Will ye go, lassie, go?_

_If my true love she should die_

_I would surely find no other_

_To pull wild mountain thyme_

_All around the blooming heather _

_Will ye go, lassie, go?_

_And we'll all go together_

_To pull wild mountain thyme_

_All around the purple heather_

_Will ye go, lassie go?_

As the last note faded into silence, I felt my mother's hand go limp in mine. A last puff of her breath grazed my cheek, and I knew she was gone. "No," I whispered. "No!" My words turned to sobs, then a flood of tears as I held her prone body. It was already growing cold. I felt Teresa's hand on my back as I cried. My mother was gone, and she wasn't coming back. Without warning, Patrick pulled me into a hug for the second time in two days. I didn't protest, for comfort was finally what I needed. He permitted me to cry on his shoulder, for which I was grateful. I inhaled the scent of wool, cotton and cologne, mixed with the sterile odour of hospital antiseptic. For years afterward I would loathe the smell that cloyed in operating theatres and wards. It reminded me too much of my mother's final moments.

I returned to my house that night in which Teresa had lived with me for those past few months, and packed an overnight bag. It finally allowed my aunt to return to her home, for which, I could sense, she was grateful. She drove me in silence to Patrick's place. "Social worker's due over tomorrow," I said simply, as he answered the door. He just nodded.

We stood in his lounge together after Teresa had left, saying nothing. Eventually my new guardian broke the silence. "I washed Red John's smiley off the wall."

"Good. He's dead and we need to forget him. Revenge is yours." I cracked a wry smile, which he returned in kind. "Sounds like a badly written line for a villain."

"I know." I was suddenly aware how very awkward the whole situation was, and Patrick guessed it too. "Let me give you the grand tour."

"Sounds like a plan." He showed me round his home, pausing only when he reached the room where his wife and child were found dead. "You might not want to go in there." I didn't say anything – frankly, he was right. Blood or no blood, it was still creepy.

The bedroom allocated to me was spacious, and would easily fit the stuff from my matchbox of a room back home. "Thanks. This is really nice," I told Patrick. He smiled, that wonderfully genuine curve of his lips once again. It seemed a steadily more common occurrence, for which I was glad. "Once the adoption's sorted out I can get your stuff."

"This might be harder than you think, you know," I said. "Do you have a criminal record?"

"Oh, just assault, narcotics charges, et cetera," he said casually. "But they've all been cleared or dropped." My jaw fell open slightly.

"They were all in relation to cases," he reassured me, waving my concern away. "It'll be fine."

"Sure." I rolled my eyes. "Hopefully my aunt'll be able to clear up anything you've done." He looked at me in mock horror.

"I'm surprised you don't have more faith in me."

"I don't entirely trust you," I smiled wryly. "Who could?" To my surprise, he seemed hurt. "You don't trust me?"

"You play games and lie to Lisbon all the time, so I've heard," I shrugged helplessly.

"Well," he said, looking searchingly at me, "we must remedy this. Let's do a trustfall."

"Fine," I chuckled. "But if I fall and bump my head, I'll get you." He simply shook his head wryly went and stood behind me.

"Fall." Reluctantly, I let myself tip backwards. In the few seconds I was moving, a thousand thoughts rushed through my head. What if he didn't catch me? Could I trust him? Would he humiliate me? Why had he adopted me? I took a leap of faith, and let go. My eyes fluttered shut and my stomach did a double backflip.

Exceeding all my expectations, strong arms reached out and caught me.


	11. Devil's Cherry

This chapter contains spoilers for Devil's Cherry. I'll give you an alert – you can continue reading the next chapter without it. It might confuse you for a little bit, but not for long. Have fun!

A small, involuntary gasp escaped my lips as Patrick caught me. He'd made good. Perhaps, in that moment, I lingered in his clutches a little longer than necessary – but neither of us cared. If he noticed, there was no comment. "Well done," I smiled sardonically as I extricated myself from him. "I really trust you now." He gripped my shoulders and turned me to face him, looking into my eyes. "I want you to know that you _can_ trust me. I'll always be there for you, whether you like it or not."

"I know," I smiled. "Thanks." Perhaps now we could both begin to heal.

The next day heralded the arrival of a social worker, who introduced herself as Martha Grant. We moved into the living room and sat on the couch. I tried to sip my glass of water casually, but there was no mistaking my tension. She looked suspiciously at Jane, but he turned on the charm and ten thousand megawatt smile. "I'm a law enforcement agent," he explained. "I've had every background check in the book. Lily will be perfectly safe with me."

"That remains to be seen. Weren't your child and wife murdered?"

"Yes, they were," Patrick said evenly.

"And you're hunting their killer?"

"_Was_," he corrected. "He's no longer an issue."

"He's dead, you mean – and the manner of his supposed suicide is very suspicious."

"How do you know such intimate details of CBI cases?" His tone was ice cold – no more messing around, it seemed.

"It's my business to know," said Martha simply.

"Patrick isn't a murderer," I said calmly. "I'd trust him with my life."

"But have you ever been in a position to test that trust?" she asked shrewdly. I had to admit, she was good.

"Yes, actually, I have. Red John came after me. If it weren't for Patrick, I'd have had a knife through the gut."

"I've already had a child," Patrick put in. "If you want proof that I'm capable, look no further."

"You've had a mental breakdown, Mister Jane," Martha said gently. "I highly doubt it left you unaffected. As such, I'm talking about now, not then."

"And _I _highly doubt it affected my skills as a father," he countered, still under a good-natured façade only I could see through fully.

"Are you sure that you're not trying to adopt Lily as a way to replace your late daughter? Charlotte, wasn't it?" It was the first time I'd seen any trace of anger in his manner – Patrick's face stayed set in the smiling mask, but his voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone. "So what if I am?" Each word was enunciated so clearly that we'd all have heard him, even if he'd been whispering. To the woman's credit, she retained her serious gaze, seeming not to quail under the frankly terrifying air he was giving off. If it had been me in her situation, I'm sure I would have run for the hills. "It's not healthy." The matter-of-fact diagnosis irritated him, I could see. "Maybe it's what I need to get over them," he said pointedly.

"I'd like to interview Lily alone, if that's alright."

"Certainly." His grin was all teeth.

Martha and I moved to the study, where we sat down. She began to question me relentlessly. "Has he ever hit you?"

"No!" My tone was adamant.

"Sexual abuse?"

"Of course not." The thought made me blush more than I liked to admit. _Good thing Patrick isn't here to see that_, I thought.

"No need to look so shocked, Lily. We get a lot of that from adoptive fathers." I shuddered. "Have you any reason to suspect any illegal doings on his part?"

"None whatsoever," I confirmed. That was a lie, but she didn't suspect.

"Hmm."

"If you let me stay with Patrick, you can keep tabs on him through his boss, Teresa Lisbon. She's also my aunt."

"Is that how the two of you met?" I nodded.

"Well," Martha concluded, "I'll consider everything and talk to his boss and colleagues; people who know him. I'll get back to you within a couple of days. For now, you can stay with him." I hid a grin.

"Thanks."

"I'll be watching, remember," she warned.

Back in my living room, the social worker delivered the good news. "Congratulations, Mister Jane. You have full custody until the assessment is complete. I'll notify you in a few days." Just like that, she was gone, and we were alone.

For a moment we stood in stunned silence. "Now I've got you in my clutches," he smirked.

"Oh no," I trilled sarcastically. "Whatever shall I do?" I darted away from him teasingly, but my escape wasn't to last. He'd disappeared and I thought myself safe, until something gripped me round the waist from behind and sent me tumbling onto the couch. "Gotcha," a voice said playfully in my ear.

"I am captured," I cried dramatically. "Oh no!" This, I realised, was the fatherly attention I'd been starved of. Even before James wreaked chaos on my life, my real dad had pissed off at the first sign of responsibility. Through Patrick, however, I could relive the missed times of my childhood. He'd caught me against the soft, pudgy cushions of his sofa – strong hands pinned me down. I grinned. "Let me up." A mischievous smirk crossed his face, and he shook his head. I should have known. "Come on," I wheedled good-naturedly. I sighed, internally forming a plan. I flopped limp and pretended to give up. Several seconds passed and still he hadn't let down his guard – finally I sensed a change and chance, and I took it. I let out a sudden surprised yell. It shocked him – Patrick released his hold for a moment, and so I wriggled free and sped backwards. Identical delighted, impish grins pasted themselves across our features. "I think you're losing your touch," I tutted. "Dear me."

"I'll admit, you're good," he conceded. "But not as good as me." We circled each other, trying to predict when the other would make their move.

"Rule number one in my house," Patrick began. "Respect. No lies, tell me where you're going."

"I'm good with that," I agreed. "As long as it's _mutual_."

"Well, we both know we're probably going to be the smartest people in most rooms, so call it respecting the other's intelligence." I laughed.

"Rule number two," he continued. "No boys." I groaned.

"Within reason," he specified. "Keep the door open, in other words." I shot him a withering look.

"I'm not the type."

"Good." There was something akin to pity in his gaze. I didn't want it – not now.

"Rule three – keep up." He left me to figure out what that meant on my own.

"In other words, be smarter than you or you'll eat me for breakfast."

"Precisely. Intellectual prowess is important. Every day, I'm going to help you become a better mentalist."

"So you were serious?" My instruction had petered out long ago, or so I'd thought. "Of course. In the beginning I was just intending to give you a quick guide – but it takes years of practice to develop my art and there's lots of little tricks and tips."

"Let's do it then." I'd stopped in my tracks absently, chase forgotten, but evidently it was not the same for him. Within seconds I was trapped in his grip yet again, laughing my head off. This time Patrick relented far more easily. "You want to start now? Okay then." I looked at him expectantly. "Sit down." I did so, and he continued. "Here's a useful trick for your memory – if you're going to do mentalism well, you need to store things up there and be able to access them again easily. What's a location that you know so well you could navigate it perfectly in your mind's eye?"

"My old house," I said immediately.

"Good. Close your eyes. Start, for instance, at the front door, and take a route in your mind through each and every room. Remember the details." I followed instructions, picturing each aspect perfectly. "I can see it," I confirmed.

"Good. Wait here." He returned thirty seconds later with a piece of paper and a pen. Taking these, he wrote down fifteen numbers. "What I want you do to is look at these numbers, and remember them."

"The human brain can only remember seven things at once," I groaned.

"Not true," he reminded me sharply. "Take a number, walk through your house mentally. Take each number and place it in a room in a _memorable _way. That way when I tell you to recite them back, you can find them again. This technique is called a memory palace."

I was amazed to find, that at the exercise's conclusion, I could remember each number easily, just by finding its room. "Told you it was easy," he said smugly. "Well done."

"Praise at last! Thank you."

"Cheeky." He swatted me playfully. I checked my watch; an hour had past since Martha had left, without my knowledge. Suddenly a question occurred to me. "What is your memory palace?"

"This place." Bittersweet memories they would be then.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, that's okay." He seemed faintly distant. "Don't worry." I looked at him dubiously. "I need to let them go, however difficult it is."

"You don't seem to be able to do that very well," I admitted.

(SPOILER ALERT!)

He sighed. "I'll tell you a story, and maybe it'll help you understand. One day I was at a witness's house, and I made a pot of tea in her kettle. Stupid, to say the least – but I was a bit depressed. I'd lost a lead to Red John. A woman called Lorelei was an accomplice of his, and the FBI took her. Anyway, I drank this tea. I didn't realise it at the time, but I fainted. I thought, however, that a rabbit hopped out of the pot on the woman's stove. I followed it, not suspecting anything. I came to a garden. It was beautiful and manicured, bright and lush." His eyes had glazed over. "There was a girl. She was tall, blonde and pretty, and she introduced herself as Charlotte. I told her it was half of a beautiful name. She said to me that she was my daughter, and I thought she was playing a con. I found her corpse; it couldn't be true." Tears formed in my eyes and I blinked them away. This wasn't my grief to feel. "Then I followed her to a jeweller's workshop – he was a witness in the case I was working on. Lisbon and Cho were there, and I introduced them to Charlotte. 'I've heard so much about you', Lisbon said. I snapped at her that my daughter was dead. Then Cho said I was having another episode, I fainted in the hallucination and woke up in the real world – Charlotte was still there." I put a hand on his arm, but he barely seemed to notice it.

"We found the killer eventually, but Charlotte said she was leaving me. I assumed she was coming back. She said she wasn't. She told me to stop hunting Red John, that Angela and she didn't care what happened, because they were dead. I didn't listen to her, and that night I drank more of the tea – it's called belladonna, or devil's cherry." I could see tears in his eyes now, and my heart ached. The room was dark, dimmed by the sun's disappearance behind a cloud.

"I needed her back. She wasn't real, but I didn't ever want to her leave."


	12. Moving On

I'd like it noted that I don't actually play guitar…. :P I'm just making it up. All credit for the songs goes to their respective artists – I own nothing. Also, I do not own the Mentalist. If I did, I'd be very happy, because I'd see Simon Baker….

I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him into a hug, the first contact I'd initiated. He returned it and it seemed to help a tiny bit. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I wish I could help stop you hurting." This was the side of Patrick Jane that few got to see – the side that was still twisted and broken in the wake of his family's death. "I'll recover. I just need time," he murmured. It was in comforting him that I could escape the terrible reality of my mother's death. Two broken souls together. I moved into the matching armchair and sat back, closing my eyes. Patrick, however, stretched out fully on the sofa, just as he did at the CBI. Both of us were lost in our own thoughts, and it was an hour until either of us stirred. My guardian stood, stretching like a cat, and tapped my shoulder. My eyes flickered fully open. "Do you want to go and get your stuff?"

We walked out into the open air and got into Jane's antique car – light blue, faded metal and an old fashioned shell. "Vintage," I commented. "Very nice."

"Thank you," he responded cheerfully. Obviously the master of deception had rebuilt his façade once more. I decided not to test it – if he acted fine then maybe he'd become so.

I rode shotgun on the way to my old home, staring out of the window in contemplative silence. Something spurred me to break it, and I broke out in soft song.

_Come on, skinny love_

_Just last the year_

_Pour a little salt,_

_We were never here_

I trailed off self-consciously. "Keep going," Jane said. "You're a beautiful singer."

"Are you sure?"

"Please."

_My my my, my my my, my my_

_Staring at the sink of blood_

_And crushed veneer_

_I told my love to wreck it all_

_Cut out all the ropes and let me fall _

_My my my, my my my, my my_

_Right at the moment, _

_This order's tall_

_I told you to be patient_

_And I told you to be fine_

_And I told you to be gentle _

_And I told you to be kind_

_And in the morning I'll be with you_

_But it'll be a different kind_

'_Cause I'll be holding all the tickets_

_And you'll be owing all the fines_

That was enough. "You didn't finish," Patrick noted.

"No," I said simply. "But how did you know?"

"I could tell. It wasn't musically complete." His tone was vaguely patronising, but oddly it didn't bother me. I only chuckled.

"How very knowledgeable," I laughed.

"Quite."

It didn't take long to find my old place – 28 Victoria Avenue. I didn't have a key, but there was a spare underneath the front door mat. Problem solved. The door creaked ever so slightly, releasing a blast of cold air. The house was quiet and had a feeling of neglect about it although it was clean. I was glad that James hadn't been round to disturb it, for that also meant that he hadn't nicked any of what were now _my _valuables.

I went to my room, for that was the only place that held anything I wanted to take with me. All I really needed was my sparse collection of books, my laptop and a few boxes that held my clothes. Last but not least came my guitar and practice books. "How long have you played for?" asked Jane.

"A few years," I shrugged. I plucked absently at a string and slipped the instrument into its case. It was difficult to conceal the rush of emotions that came with it – my mom had given me the guitar for my twelfth birthday. She wouldn't ever hear me play it again. Eventually, however, I merely gave in. Tears fell silently down my cheeks as I stared at it. The only other piece of my mother that I took with me was her jewellery box, and that was as much to keep my stepfather's filthy paws off it and its contents as for sentimental reasons.

Boxes were packed into Patrick's car, and we drove back again to his place. I took the spare key from under the mat – it was a poor deterrent to James, but it might work if he'd lost his key. The process of unpacking didn't take long at all – there was already a bookcase, wardrobe, bed and desk in the room I occupied. So, all traces of my previous life had been wiped away, with only a few pieces still with me.

That night Patrick made dinner – a simple pasta affair, which I wolfed down – and afterwards I helped wash up, then pulled out the guitar. Music was what I needed. Brushing my fingers across the frets and tweaking the pegs brought back memories from months ago, when I'd play for Tasha when James wasn't around. Carefully I strummed out a few chords, trying to recover the ability I'd once had. Softly I began to sing.

_Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where they strung up a man_

_They say murdered three_

_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be _

_If we met up at midnight_

_In the hanging tree_

Silently, he sat next to me and began to sing a soft harmony, and I smiled.

_Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where the dead man called_

_For his love to flee_

_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be _

_If we met up at midnight_

_In the hanging tree_

With the last verse he had mastered the tune perfectly, and the harmony blended with the melody in smooth waves of sound. When the last note had finally rung out into the silence and I lifted my fingers from the guitar, I said, "I didn't know you could sing."

"You learn something new every day," was his cryptic, unrevealing response. I yawned. It was only eight thirty, and yet I was exhausted. I blamed the stressful day – social workers, mentalism and moving in took their toll. "Well, this was a beautiful bonding moment, but I'm tired. Good night, Patrick. Don't go drinking any devil's cherry."

"Good night, Lily." His face was grave.

As I lay in my bed that night, I felt peaceful for the first time in months. I drifted to sleep with guitar melodies twining through my mind, and through the dark hours I dreamt of my mother, sitting beside me and singing. Her voice was soft, clear and sweet, just as it had been when she was alive. I woke the next morning, only to find tears still drying on my cheeks.


	13. Tears And Dreams

_6 months later_

I would turn fifteen in a week, and Patrick's house already felt like home. He had, of course, achieved custody – my mother's permission, a lack of available relatives that weren't jailed (Lily: 1, James: 0) and a glowing testimonial from Teresa Lisbon in relation to Jane's abilities in the father department all contributed. I was surprised at this last revelation, as I'd thought she saw Jane as a nuisance.

Soon afterward we developed a comforting routine – I would go to school during the term, come home via the bus and pilfer the fridge in moderation. I'd go for a twenty minute run round the block, then return home. Homework came first, and then Patrick would spend an hour on mentalism training with me. On the weekends I'd spend time with friends at their places, the movies, bowling, or whatever we could think up. He didn't care who I went with, as long as I trusted them – but it was a different thing from what it had been. My friends treated me like a bomb about to go off.

Occasionally when I was sick or he had to work weekends (which was rare indeed) I went into work with him, and it felt like the old days – helping to interview witnesses and snooping around. I wasn't yet old enough to be a proper intern with the CBI, but that was the plan when I turned eighteen. For now I would simply practice my skills.

I didn't know, however, what to do for a party to celebrate my upcoming birthday. I didn't even know if I felt like celebrating. I'd passed into the grief stage following Mom's death, and the pain would hit me at sudden moments like a knife wound, sharp and fresh. Things that reminded me of her often triggered it – the perfume she used to wear, the place she worked before the cancer, an outfit she might have worn. Teresa seemed quiet and distant as well – I knew that she had been close to my mother. Her eyes were red on frequent occasions.

Jane did his best to comfort me, but it was clear he was going through a lot as well – he lacked the single driven focus of revenge, and now there was nothing but raw grief he had to deal with, and the small amount of personal satisfaction and justice that he'd achieved with his act of murder didn't help. I just hoped he wouldn't have a breakdown like the last time. I couldn't handle that. I finally had a family that was only mildly dysfunctional, and I would not lose it. As it was, I decided to keep my birthday simple, and just spend a quiet night at home. I was fully aware it wasn't what my friends expected me to choose, but they had no say in my life – they'd become distant after Red John's attack, and even more so after my mother's death.

On the night before I was due to turn fifteen, I had a nightmare. It was wholly unexpected – I had thought that I'd finally recovered from the trauma this past year. It mirrored exactly the night of my encounter with the late serial killer, except that I knew exactly what was going to happen and was powerless to prevent it. I struggled to escape my body, a restless spirit in a vessel that moved against my will.

I won't describe my dream in great detail, as it was quite horrific. Needless to say that the pain of it felt as real as it had the first time. I escaped the dream when Red John left me bleeding in the alley. I woke screaming – screaming for my mother, for Patrick, for anyone. The one person I needed most appeared in the doorway, a stricken look on his face. Immediately he was by my side and sitting on the bed, holding me close. "I had a nightmare," I choked out.

'I guessed as much. It was him, wasn't it?" I gave a small nod.

"It's okay," he reassured me. "He's dead – gone. He won't ever hurt you again." I was still reluctant. "How do you know it was really him?" I said in a small voice. "It could have been a poser the whole time."

"I know." His eyes were steely. "He told me everything." I didn't say anything – what words were there to comfort revenge, much less murder? He held me until I was calm again – it was then that I realised how odd the situation would have looked to an outsider. It was all I could do not to blush, and those thoughts led me down interesting paths…. I shook myself mentally. It wasn't what I wanted – not now, but it wasn't to be denied that he was attractive. Then, however, I took what he was giving at face value – a father's love.

I fell asleep with a tiny smile on my face.


	14. All Grown Up

Okay. I get it. I'm skipping around heaps – but I promise, this is it. Again, big italicised bits are Patrick POV. Warning: fanservice and some Patrick/Lily sexytimes coming up next chapter – give me an idea of how detailed this can be without anyone crying 'porn fic' in the reviews. For now, get ready for a fight.

P.S. I'm fairly sure the University of Phoenix actually offers the course I've specified. Ha. I did my research.

_Two years later_

My eighteenth birthday, and bloody Patrick had decided to work on a case – a case at a club right next to the one I had booked for my party. _Ughh. _Unbelievable. He was downstairs sprawled on the couch, while I was upstairs getting ready. He'd be sure to interfere, and I couldn't have that. "Oh, cursed Fates," I muttered. I should mention at this point that several years living with the mentalist Patrick Jane had instilled a great deal of interesting historical tidbits into me. I cursed like Shakespeare and knew a lot about historical novels.

I'd start college in the fall at the University of Phoenix – the Sacramento Valley campus was a short bus ride from the house I still shared with Patrick. For these reasons, I'd picked a Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice – what better way to become a cop?

Twenty minutes later I was ready. I wore a slinky, tight fitting black dress and strappy stiletto heels, huge silver hoops and a dark red leather jacket. Light brown mascara complimented my chocolate coloured hair in a messy ponytail, and dark red lipstick matched my coat. Light foundation and loose powder covered a sprinkling of untimely acne, and last but not least, a light line of eyeliner and some matte eyeshadow with tiny hints of sparkling glitter. I went downstairs with the determined intention of telling Patrick to keep away.

"You look good," were his first words. "Beautiful." I felt heat suffuse my cheeks, and I knew they'd turned a light shade of pink. "You know," I told him, "if you're going to a club you can't wear that." I gestured towards the customary three-piece suit. He rolled his eyes. "It's a murder investigation."

"If there's anyone interesting there to talk to, they'll run a mile," I protested. "You look like a cop. At least put on some jeans or something." He ignored me.

"Whatever." I gave up. "But I don't want you quizzing my friends, okay? Keep your opinions to yourself." He just gave me a grin, and I sighed. "I'm off."

"Have fun."

_He watched her leave, a confident eighteen year old – so different from the broken young teenager he'd taken in. He dared not admit to himself, but deep down he knew she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on. Patrick shook his head. "Get a grip." _

The taxi reached the club within fifteen minutes, and I immediately saw a group of my friends waiting outside. I went to join them. "Hey, guys," I smiled.

"Happy birthday, Lils," Hannah squealed, hugging me tight. Taylor smiled and Ally grinned. It was going to be a good night.

Dancing took it out of all of us, so within a few hours we headed to the bar. The laws in California meant we couldn't drink, so I ordered a Coke and felt boring. I knew I'd never pass for twenty-one, and I hadn't managed to swipe a decent looking ID from anyone. I doubt I had the guts. I smirked, however, when Taylor led us over to a dark corner and pulled out a water bottle full of rum. I sloshed some into my drink and took a swig. The light buzz swept down to my toes, and I immediately relaxed.

My good mood dissipated as I saw Patrick heading through the crowd toward us. "Just a minute," I grumbled, ever so slightly drunk. "What's up?"

"Just thought I'd say hi," he said innocently.

"I don't believe you," I scowled.

"Just let me ask a few questions," he cajoled. I nodded reluctantly and he went over to my friends – immediately I saw a few hostile glares as he began talking. I heard the phrases 'broken childhood', 'hidden secret', 'you cheated on your boyfriend'. I knew it wouldn't be good – within five minutes my friends had stormed away, yelling about 'invasive bastards' and 'stupid cops'. I tried to get them to come back, but it was no use. "Your dad is crazy," Ally fumed at me.

"What did you do?" I shrieked at him.

"Asked a few questions," he said. "It's not my fault your friends had something to hide."

"I'm so out of here," I spat. I saw Jane dart over to Lisbon and say something – she waved him away and he proceeded to follow me as I stormed from the club.

We drove back in stony silence. "I'm so not done with you." I didn't care that I was drunk and he probably knew – I didn't care that it would probably end in a fight I'd regret. I confronted him on the veranda, and geared myself up to shout. "Thanks for ruining my birthday," was my first caustic rejoinder.

"You're drunk."

"So what?"

"You're eighteen."

"It's my birthday. All I had was a bit of rum in my Coke." His gaze was piercing as I argued my case. "In many countries, eighteen is the legal drinking age."

"I could book you for underage drinking."

"You're just distracting me from the real issue. You spilled my friends' secrets in front of them!" I was getting steadily angrier.

"I won't apologise. Your friends have some dirty little secrets and I let them air – so what?"

"They hate me. After everything, I'm friendless _again_!" I yelled.

_She was beautiful, even in all her rage._

"Don't get angry, Lily," he warned. "Remember what I've taught you – an even temper gets you much further in life." I was completely enraged.

"Don't make me the mentalist's daughter again – let me be angry, for once. Let me show some feelings! It's more than you ever do." His voice rose to a shout.

"So I'm cold and emotionless, huh? This enough for you?"

"Don't you dare make this about me," I hissed. "You've ruined my life!" I didn't realise he'd stepped closer until those enigmatic blue eyes stared into mine. I knew I should say something, back away, but it was like I couldn't quite remember how. I was like a rabbit stuck in bright headlights. Before I knew it, his lips were pressed to mine, and I was kissing him back like there was no one else in the world on that bright, starry night. I wasn't a wide-eyed, naïve fifteen year old anymore; I knew exactly what he wanted – and it was definitely within my power to give it.


	15. Hold Me Close

Sexual content coming up – I believe that's all I have to say. Once again, I do not own the Mentalist.

We were all over each other as I stumbled through the doorway. Then Patrick paused. "We can't do this." I have to admit, I was fairly irritated.

"Why ever not?" It was clear he was exasperated.

"I adopted you! I'm fairly sure it's not legal to sleep with your adoptive father."

"I'm eighteen," I reminded him. "I can do whatever the hell I want when it comes to sleeping with people. I'm not off limits for you."

"It feels bad," he admitted. "I feel like a creeper."

"Oh, shut up and kiss me," I snapped, pulling him close. He complied, through shock or lust I'll never know.

I'm fairly sure most people don't have a fantastic sense of direction when they're making out with someone – Patrick and I were no exception. Somehow we ended up in his kitchen, the curve of my back pressed against the cold marble of the countertop. Freakishly neat as always, the bench was clear – but then I spoke up. "I have no intention of fucking you on a kitchen counter." There was a mischievous glint in his eye. Without warning, he swept me up in his arms and carried me bridal style to his bedroom. Suddenly it hit me that it would really happen.

To give you some background, I had only had one boyfriend since my fifteenth birthday, and we had never gotten further than second base. As much as I liked to tell myself that I was recovered, the idea of sex had faintly terrified me. Somehow, however, I was able to trust Patrick enough to allow him to lead me into his bedroom.

The space was dimly lit. I gave him a small smile, which he took as his cue to unzip my dress, running light kisses down my neck as he did so. It was mere coincidence that I'd worn lacy silk underwear – or was it? I knew that some part of my subconscious had probably realised I'd take someone home tonight. How had it turned out to be him?

My heels didn't prove to be any kind of a challenge – I kicked them off easily. I warned him not to rip my tights in his haste, or there'd be hell to pay. I thanked God that I'd motivated myself to exercise; I was the kind of girl that had to work out to keep skinny if I wanted to be able to eat what I wanted, unlike some others. Thankfully, my stomach was flat. That didn't help the pale skin – I hadn't bothered with a spray tan. Oh well. Patrick didn't seem to mind. "An ivory skinned goddess," he murmured in my ear. A shiver of something unnameable ran down my spine.

I'd have thought a little of his arrogance would have left him as he took me to bed, but this wasn't the case at all. Far from it – he smirked as his uncanny attention to detail had me gasping and crying out. A hand roved up my back and unhooked my bra, travelling back around to run a finger across one breast. I felt strangely calm – I shouldn't have, considering a murderer had me in his arms, but nevertheless I felt I could trust him completely.

I kissed him hard on the mouth, yielding to the force of his tongue battling with mine. He was still fully clothed, and I evened up the playing field by ripping off his shirt and loosening his belt. "Impatient, are we?" he chuckled.

"No," I said evenly. "Just making things a little fairer." That was when I got a good look at his exposed torso. "How is it," I demanded, "that a man who does no visible exercise can have a body that perfect, while I run every day and barely seem to keep the fat off?" His eyes sparkled with mirth.

"I go to the gym once a week." I shook my head, grumbling about metabolism giving some people the bodies of Adonis. He merely laughed, easily ridding me of the last vestiges of my clothing. There was something new in his eyes, something I hadn't yet seen. It unnerved me slightly, but the feathery kisses he placed on my cheeks and eyelashes soon distracted me from everything else.

It was then that time seemed to still and slow. Patrick looked down at me, an unspoken question in his eyes. Although there was hesitation in my heart, I spoke but three words. "Take me. Now." He kissed me gently on the lips, and pushed me down on the bed. With that simple movement I felt a glorious heat run through my veins, and fell into the swirling pool of ecstasy his touch brought. This was so different to my first time in every possible way, and I never wanted it to end…..


	16. The Morning After

**Sorry about the very long update wait – I have been in hospital and then recovering, and that's rather impeded on my writing time. Again, I do not own the rights to the magical series the Mentalist, although I am now the proud owner of the first three seasons on DVD. Yay!**

I was up in the morning before Patrick; it was like a romantic comedy, I imagine – me standing at his kitchen bench, cooking eggs in nothing but underwear and a sheer dressing gown. "Morning," I greeted him. My guardian responded with a sleepy smile. It was more than a bit awkward – I didn't feel I could call him dad anymore, not after last night. "Want some eggs?"

"How did you know they were my favourite?" he said groggily. I merely chuckled.

"Four years with you will tend to help with that kind of thing."

Fifteen minutes later, we ate breakfast together in contented silence; Patrick sat dressed in jeans and a shirt. The sight of him in anything other than the constant three-piece suits had been disconcerting at the tender age of fifteen, but was rather less so after several years.

Some time later we were finished and sat awkwardly at the table. I felt as if I should say something – anything – about the night before. "This is so weird," I muttered, expressing my feelings verbally. "Just a smidge," he admitted. "I can't say I know how to proceed." I offered him a hand.

"A lift to my orientation would be nice," I said wryly. My first introductory session at university was in less than an hour. I knew exactly how my life would proceed beyond this – I would study, then take exams to become a cop after my double degree had finished, training like a maniac beforehand. I would then endeavour to rise up the ranks, eventually moving on to criminal investigation. I hoped that I'd be a homicide detective by the time I was thirty. On the other hand, I had no idea how Patrick Jane fitted into my master plan.

The voice of the above mentioned mentalist broke into my thoughts. "Of course." I had intended him to take my hand, but instead he lifted it to his lips and kissed the back in an old fashioned, courtly gesture. I was thrown, to say the least, and vainly tried to stem the spread of colour across my cheeks. It didn't work, and he smirked, eyes roving down my form. I was distinctly, suddenly and painfully aware of my lack of decent clothing. His hand slipped mischievously under the flimsy cloth and traversed my skin, but before long I slapped his hand away and retreated to my bathroom to shower and change.

A pair of jeans, leather jacket and white tee was my outfit that day, along with lace up black combats. A dot of concealer on a few stubborn pimples and some shimmery lip-gloss, and I was done. When I re-emerged, the consultant grinned. "Channelling Grace van Pelt, are we?"

"Can't hurt," I answered flippantly. To deny it would have been suicide in these games with Patrick Jane. "She's the toughest redhead I know, and all my classmates will be potential cops of some sort. Gotta make an impression, _ves_?"

"Spanish? Really?" he queried incredulously as we got into his Citröen.

"Beautiful language," I shrugged.

"Bit pretentious, really, for the most all-American girl there is."

"Bite me," I chuckled. "You've used it plenty; don't bother denying it." I smiled at him. His arrogance, his egotistical ways, his broken soul – I saw it all, and yet I loved him more than anything else in the world.

As we drove off down the street, my head rested on Patrick's shoulder. We were two mentalists, two damaged people, but the ragged edges of our souls meshed together in a perfect fit. For now, that was enough.

**It's finished! I feel quite sad. I am considering writing a sequel of Lily's adventures and her path back to CBI, but let me know if anyone would actually read it. Thank you so much, dear readers, for being so supportive. I'm officially a Lily/Jane shipper. YAY!**


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